


You are a call to motion

by Philipa_Moss



Category: History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Growing Old Together, M/M, Porn Watching, Post-Canon, and critiquing, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: “And I’m not being furtive about it! It’s just that the most convenient time is when you’re not home.”“I didn’t think you were being furtive,” said Scripps, hanging his jacket in the closet.Posner looked a little crestfallen. Perhaps Scripps was meant to think hewasbeing furtive.
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26





	You are a call to motion

**Author's Note:**

> Very little plot and shockingly little porn, but enough back and forth to make it worth it.
> 
> Title from "Movement" by Hozier

That day, it was something Posner did. “And I’m not being furtive about it! It’s just that the most convenient time is when you’re not home.”

“I didn’t think you were being furtive,” said Scripps, hanging his jacket in the closet.

Posner looked a little crestfallen. Perhaps Scripps was meant to think he _was_ being furtive.

“Only it’s not particularly furtive to still be watching the pornography after I’ve come all the way in here,” Scripps said, indicating their bedroom, which was two doors and six very loud floorboards away from the outdoors and Scripps’ recent trudge home. “They cancelled my appointment.”

“Oh no,” said Posner, pushing his laptop shut and scooting to the edge of the bed. “Did you tell them it hurts?”

“Yes.”

“And where it hurts?”

“Yes, dear,” said Scripps, sitting down heavily next to Posner. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I told them exactly where, when, and how my knee is fucked. They still cancelled.” 

“Did they give you a reason?” Posner asked in that terrier way of his. Sometimes Scripps thought that he should have been the reporter between the two of them, with his fondness for follow-ups and the unblinking way he had of waiting for an answer.

“Overbooked,” said Scripps. “They apologized.”

“Mm,” said Posner, obviously unimpressed. And well might he be. Posner had more experience with the medical profession on the whole, and less patience.

“They’re seeing me first thing tomorrow,” said Scripps. “Don’t fuss.”

“I’m not fussing,” said Posner, and glanced at the closet, the overfull hamper, anywhere but at Scripps. Scripps swallowed a smile. They’d known each other for forty years and been together for thirty and Posner still worried when Scripps was unwell and didn’t like to be caught worrying. It made it more real for him, Scripps suspected.

“All right,” said Scripps. He squeezed Posner’s leg and moved to get up, which was easier considered than executed. He really shouldn’t have walked all that way when he knew the knee in question was, in fact, fucked.

“Here,” said Posner after a decent interval. “Come sit up here and I’ll show you what I was watching.”

Scripps preferred his smut in written form, but he could admit to more than a passing interest in what Posner was watching. It wasn’t as though they hid these things from each other—it was not, indeed, furtive—but for their own reasons it made sense to maintain an aspect of their sex life that was wholly independent. Being invited to take a look was like being invited to an invitation-only exhibition from his favorite curator.

So Scripps levered himself up to lean against the headboard and Posner moved to slide a pillow under his bad knee before clambering over to his side of the bed. He placed his laptop on his thighs and opened it up to reveal a full screen paused image of a blonde man, eyes closed, with a cock in his mouth.

“And a good afternoon to you,” said Scripps.

“Indeed,” said Posner, and hit the spacebar with an elaborate flourish. This ushered in a few moments of silent fellatio, during which time Posner said, “What’s happened to the sound?” and Scripps said, “Were you using the headphones?” and Posner located said headphones, on which he was mostly sitting, and yanked them out of the jack to throaty and deafening moans.

“Jesus,” said Scripps and, “Sorry,” said Posner as he readjusted to a humane level.

At that point, Scripps felt that a pause and reset were in order. In the temporary silence, he noted the title of the video. “Muscle otter takes four loads?”

Posner sniffed. “There’s no poetry in search optimization.”

Scripps was very unselfconscious about the fact that the porn he favored was likely written for women, with a strong focus on slow-burning romance fuelled by lasting connections and frequent foreplay. He knew who he was. Still, “Five minutes?” he exclaimed, noticing the progress bar. “Four loads in five minutes?”

“You haven’t accounted for jump cuts,” said Posner, hitting the space bar again and thus forestalling Scripps’ perfectly reasonable assertion that there wasn’t enough _trucage_ in the world to build an adequate narrative around four loads in five minutes.

And it wasn’t as though Scripps had never watched porn before—he knew the format—it was just difficult over the space of five minutes to silence that part of his brain that greeted every stimulus with curious, nigh on academic scrutiny and coax out the part of his brain who saw a man on his knees moaning and thought, _oh_.

Posner was lightly massaging his knee, and that helped. It helped the knee to feel better and it helped to tether Scripps in the moment: the warmth of Posner against him, the light rain on the window, the smell of the heater just coming on. It had been a little while since they were together in bed like this, with this heavy, hot feeling of potential building. Scripps felt it in his chest before he felt it anywhere else. He looked over at Posner, at his keen eyes on the screen and his gently clenching chin, and said, “You’re gorgeous, love.”

“What a moment,” said Posner, but he turned to Scripps, smiling shyly. “Not as gorgeous as you.”

“It’s not a competition,” said Scripps, and kissed him.

On screen, the muscle otter groaned as though stabbed.

Posner broke the kiss. “We don’t have to,” he said, gesturing at the laptop.

“Oh, no,” said Scripps. “Now I’m invested. How ever will it end?”

“Wanker,” said Posner.

They watched for a few minutes. Posner was getting into it. His breathing had shifted, but his hands remained above his waist.

“You can if you want,” said Scripps.

“Ta,” said Posner. “Actually, I was thinking…” and he made a gesture with mouth and hand that was wildly age inappropriate yet thoroughly compelling.

“Sure,” said Scripps. “Only…” He reached over and closed Posner’s computer. He took it and placed it on the nightstand. 

Posner frowned. “But you don’t mind,” he said, with an uncertainty he once would have hidden.

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Scripps. “For now, though, I’d rather it were just the two of us.”

With Scripps’ knee, it had been a long time since they attempted anything athletic, and they didn’t now. Posner just moved down the bed and Scripps lifted his hips to slide his trousers and pants down and let Posner coax him to full hardness with his mouth. From there, the steps were familiar and no less welcome for it. The way Posner rocked against the mattress was familiar and the way Scripps hesitated before bringing both hands down to cradle Posner’s head was familiar and the sweet tightness in his chest was perhaps the most familiar of all. 

After, Scripps and Posner made dinner, which is to say Posner made dinner following Scripps’ instructions from where he sat perched at the table with his leg up on a chair.

Stirring the sauce, Posner turned and said, “Is this what we’ll be like when we’re old?” to which Scripps could only reply, “We must hope so.”


End file.
